


The Closure Chronicles

by Leblanc1 (orphan_account)



Category: Homeland
Genre: Attempt at Humor, F/M, Fluff and Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-07-11 10:18:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7044406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Leblanc1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Attempt at humor: C&Q are living together in NYC. Carrie is off her meds and is craaaazy...<br/>CHAPTER 4 IS NEW: Carrie proposes a threesome to Astrid and Quinn... actually a foursome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Letter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SourCherryBlossom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SourCherryBlossom/gifts).



> Inspired by SCB's lovely Closure which can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6894238  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skip to Ch. 2 if you’ve read Closure II Off Her Meds...or re-read here in Ch. 1. They’ve been living together for a month in this version.

_Dear Jonas,_  
_I thought of you today. My doctor took me off lithium for a couple of days. She's trying a new medication that will kick in tomorrow._

_It's not been since our time in the woods that I've been this unleashed. What a strange time that was...poor thing, you were a trembling, nervous rabbit in the face of a determined fox who happily teased, tortured and ate you for dinner. Yet, sadly, you were a pretty unsatisfying meal for me, all in all._

_It was my fault. I overestimated you in every way. You were never a worthy match. It's that simple._

_So, enclosed is your sweatshirt. I've organized every corner of my new condo, making room for Peter Quinn. I threw your hoodie into the trash pile but then reconsidered. I briefly thought about keeping it as a souvenir of our rather pointless years together but then I thought 'nah', you should have it. I've no need for remembrances._

_Perhaps that's too harsh. Our years together weren't exactly pointless - they helped get me here. They were delusional. My delusion. I wanted to create some kind of postmodern Brady Bunch. (Though, honestly, Mike Brady might have been more entertaining than you were. You know, Robert Reed being gay and all.)_

_You checked the boxes for me at the right time, Jonas. You were my type: stable, employed, a ginger, and utterly boring. Funny, my type has been turned on its head. Quinn is pretty unstable (he detests rehab), unemployed (until recently), a brunette, and never boring. Never. Not for a single second._

_This is what you taught me, Jonas:_

_I am unashamed to be the woman who ran into the subway to get the bad guys; who would have thrown herself on a sarin bomb to save the people of your fuckin' city; who has taken down scores of terrorists; who has uncovered plots so subversive and destructive it would astound your uninventive mind._

_How do I live with myself, Jonas? Because I am one hundred percent certain that for every person I killed with drones, I saved thousands more. That's how._

_Have you saved any lives recently, Jonas? Ever? While preparing your legal briefs defending these criminals, these sociopaths, whom you coddle? Does it give you fulfillment to find loopholes for terrorists and return them to the streets so they can go on killing everyone and everything you hold dear?_

_Didn't think so._

_You, my obtuse ginger German, are complicit in the terror itself._

_Consider, if you can, Jonas, whether your work has any meaning at all. I'm back at the CIA now and you know what? I sleep like a baby knowing that what I do matters; I know that there is some justice in this world and I play a part in making that happen._

_Do you want to know why I do this work? This work of which you judge with your socialist, Euro-snobbery? So you and the arrogant masses of which you are a part can take your lifestyle for granted. So you can sip your coffee in the morning while reading a newspaper with real facts and opinions; so you can worship the God of your choice (or choose not to); so your son can listen to Jay-Z and one day go to school and read Salman Rushdie._

_I run into subways so you can choose the muggle job you have, vote (or not), and have your daughter educated in schools._

_I take down terrorists so you have the freedom to pick up a bottle of Becks on your way home from work and watch porn when you climb into bed...if you're so inclined, though I'm clear you won't. Creative lovemaking was never your thing._

_We may be out of our fucking minds - Quinn and I - but understand that you don't so much as take a shit in the morning without the work that people like us do on your behalf._

_So you're welcome. You're fucking welcome._

_And if all of that sounds pretty dramatic, let's talk about love._

_Have you ever loved someone so much that you'd die for them? Didn't think so. That sort of love takes a kind of depth and imagination for which you don't possess. And you never will._

_Quinn would die for me and I for him. It's epic and sweeping and has been, on occasion, tragic. The Shakespearean kind._

_And it's scary as fuck, this kind of love. I ducked the love he offered for a long, long time. In fact, I settled into the prosaic, conditional type you doled out in an effort to ignore who I am; to avoid thinking about how I'm meant to love and be loved._

_(I even used hot rollers and got blow outs for you. Jesus. What the fuck was I thinking?)_

_Rest assured we're making up for lost time, Quinn and I._

_Quinn knows me so well that he reads my thoughts and finishes my sentences. He encourages me to do the work I love because he knows it's as essential to me as the air I breathe. And soon he'll be right along side me again, keeping me safe while I do the same for him._

_Not for nothing, Jonas, he's not a lousy lay. He's spectacular. He doesn't try to strangle me with his tongue or make me cringe with drooling kisses on my neck._

_Do you remember the first time we had sex, Jonas? I faked it. All that heaving and groaning? A complete act. It's just as well that we didn't do it for another week because you had the sniffles...I was secretly dreading it._

_When Quinn and I finally did it - on the dining table because we didn't have the patience to go upstairs - he barely touched me and I came. Just like that. That's how much I wanted him. When we finally made it to the bedroom we stayed there for two days and nights stumbling out to the kitchen for sustenance before diving back in for more._

_Compare and contrast._

_And it's still not enough. When I picked him up at the hospital last week to bring him home for good, we found a broom closet and did it against the wall because the forty-five minute drive to my place was too long to wait._

_Oh, and he's big, Jonas. When he's inside me I swear sometimes it feels like he's going to split me in two - in a good way. In a VERY good way. There’s none of this slipping out action that happened with you._

_So there you have it. Here's your sweatshirt and everything that went along with it: mundane love, boring conversations, and shitty sex._

_Live your life, Jonas, and know that you're able to do it because of Quinn and I and the thousands of others who bravely work to ensure your freedom._

_I thank God every day for our break up. I am not the woman I was with you. Today I proudly battle the bad guys. I am loved to the depths of my very soul and I'm learning to love with the same kind of abandon. I am having orgasms that blow my brain. And I am laughing and fighting with a man who will never ask me to be someone I am not._

_I am home._

_Be well._

_Carrie_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sound like a Republican Neo-con in this...but it worked for the purposes of this silly thing.
> 
> Frangi, I wrote this on my phone from the airplane...
> 
> Please comment - of any kind. I love your feedback.


	2. Medless in Manhattan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by SCB's lovely Closure which can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6894238  
> Thanks to BWG671, cheesecake_97, t-zefer, frangipaniflower and sourcherryblossom who encouraged a Ch. 2. Another nod to SCB for the smut in Internal Breach (http://archiveofourown.org/works/3062270/chapters/6645176) which inspired some of the smut here. 
> 
> There is nothing medically sound in this (e.g. drinking when off meds).

8:00 a.m.  
Lithium dry and task focused, Carrie sits at her desk in their bedroom oblivious to the bright morning sunlight streaming through the Manhattan high-rise windows.

The apartment had been Otto’s, one of his many investment properties, and he had signed it over to her when she left the Foundation; a rather epic parting gift all around, but it turns out male love for Carrie has no bounds. He had wanted her and Frannie settled and happy after all the tragic months in the hospital.

 _Click_. Print. Laptop closed.

Green pen in hand, she leans back in her chair, eyes flying across the page. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck_ , she thinks, spotting ‘sliping out’, not ‘slipping out’. _Wrong word to misspell_ , Carrie laughs, much too hard considering that she’s alone with only herself to amuse.

Correction made, print (again), laptop shut. Carrie throws the rough draft to the side and folds the final draft in half, placing it on top of the blue hoodie. She tapes up the box. Done.

Picking up the landline, Carrie then calls Frannie who had been retrieved by Maggie two days earlier in honor of her three-day physician-ordered meds withdrawal. She conveys mommy-love, managing to sound measured and sane, sending kisses with her goodbye.

She stands, arms stretching over her head, and looks at the glimmering East River, finally noticing the beautiful day.

A conspiratorial, manic smile comes over her face. _I’ve got shit - serious shit - to do_.

 

7:00 p.m.

“Carrie?” Quinn calls, dropping his keys on the entry table, almost tripping over the mountain of clothes by the door.

A blonde swirling dervish flies at him from the end of the hallway. Carrie backs him into the wall, his head bonking, her body pressing into his. She kisses him, open, hard. _Really fucking hard_ but before her tongue invades his lips, he laughs – actually laughs – against her mouth and rears his head, halting the onslaught.

“Christ, Carrie!” he chokes out, acutely aware of what he’s come home to. “You okay?”

“I am fine. Fine. Happy you’re home,” but when he opens his mouth to speak, Carrie’s hands sneak behind his head, yanking him down. Against his mouth she says, “Now give me your fucking tongue.” Quinn obliges, snaking a hand through her hair to cup the base of her head, rectifying the teenage mouth mash, drawing her back a fraction as his tongue slowly pushes past her lips. She draws him in, surrounding him, sucking him with practiced eroticism, her small body arching against his. When she finally moans, he slowly breaks it despite the hands at his collar attempting to pull him down for more.

“Look at me, Carrie,” he says, caressing her cheek, tilting her face up with a thumb under her chin, his intense steel blue eyes bearing into her.

Cocking her head to the side, eyes glazed and enormous, she radiates arousal and a fuck of a lot of crazy. “What? she asks with put-upon innocence as her hand goes to his cock over his pants.

Jumping slightly, he keeps her eyes. “Carrie…” This time there is a warning in his voice, a little parental.

“What?” she asks, dropping her hand as though punished. “ _What?_ ”

“Scale of one to ten?” he asks, his head shifting slightly, trying to gauge her.

“’Scale of one to ten’ what? What?” She exhales fast and kisses his throat, her face coquettish, impudent. “Let’s try this again, shall we?” she says, placing her hand back on his hardening groin, speaking hurriedly. “Quinn, to be clear, this is where you say ’how was your day, Carrie?’” imitating his voice and laconic delivery while palming him in circles. “And then I say, ‘mine was excellent, thanks. _Really_ fucking awesome, Quinn. How was your day?’ And that’s when you say ‘it doesn’t matter, keep your hand on my cock, please, Carrie,’ because that’s what any red blooded man would do when they’re met at the door by their, their-” she frowns with exaggerated displeasure. “Fuck. _Fuck!_ What the fuck are we? What am I?” looking away briefly, distracted by the question she’s posed to herself when her eyes fly back to him. “Who cares, right? _Girlfriend_ , then. Why the fuck does that sound so stupid?” her eyes so serious with consternation, he almost laughs.

“Carrie,” he says, again, more amused but still fatherly, beholding Manic Carrie as he’s never quite seen her. His hand goes to her wrist to still her movements at his crotch but keeps it in place.

“‘Carrie’,” she mimics, wholly defensive, because there hasn’t been a man yet who could handle her this way and she’s armed for rebuke. “‘Carrie’, what? _What?_ ” her arms flying outward, palms up.

“Hi,” he says softly, with love.

Her shoulders slump, defeated by the sweet simplicity. She melts and smiles back, charmed and disarmed. “Hi, yourself.”

“Answer the question, baby,” he says, stroking her cheek.

“You can’t call me that.” Her words pour out quickly, her voice a touch louder than normal.

“I _always_ call you that. Since the blow job in the hospital three days out of my coma, anyway. A fine welcome back to consciousness, by the way.”

“We had an agreement.”

“What agreement?”

“Only in bed.”

“I didn’t agree to a fucking thing.” This time it’s his chance. He backs her into the opposite wall, tugging her head back with the fist of hair, kissing her hard and fast, without tongue. When he lifts his head, his eyes drill into hers yet again. “Now answer the question, Carrie. One to ten?”

“Fuck, _fine_. Six. I’m fine. I just really need you to get naked. Now.”

He stares at her expectantly, saying nothing. He can smell a Carrie lie from halfway across the fucking planet.

“Okay, fuck you. Eight. Or maybe nine.” Annoyed. Petulant.

“Excellent,” he replies sarcastically. “Did the doctor give you anything?”

“No. But guess _whaaat?_ ” she says with a little girl’s sing-song voice, drawing out the words, her head shifting back and forth slightly. “She said drinking was _fiiiine_ if I got too keyed up.”

“I think we can safely say you’re there. Where’s the wine? And what smells so good? And why is there a pile of clothes here?”

She hops with a toddler’s delight and he could swear that she emits an actual giggle. “I’ll tell you later. Come-come-come,” she says, taking both of his hands walking backward and dragging him down the hallway. When they enter the kitchen he’s rendered speechless. It looks like Hurricane Sandy met Andrew and they had a baby named Katrina.

“Drum roll, _please!_ ” but she can’t catch his eyes because he’s too stunned by the mess. “Quinn, hey Quinn, right here!” poking two fingers toward his eyes and back to hers. “Do I have your attention?” He nods, casually leaning a shoulder against the door jamb. “Excellent! Tonight, in honor of your re-enrollment into the Agency we will be serving standing rib roast with Portabello mushrooms, accompanied by Brussels sprouts with bacon and thyme, and twice baked potatoes, all for you, my Trash Prince,” she announces, spreading her arms outward and curtseying deeply, a ballerina on stage. He chuckles, noticing for the first time that Carrie’s hair is damp from a shower and she is wearing next to nothing, a thin white tank dress clinging to every curve, no bra, nipples pink, puckered and slightly visible. “They’re your favorites, right? Right?” She approaches him, wagging a teasing finger. “See, see you think I don’t pay attention but I do. _I do!_ This was what you ordered – more or less – for your first meal when we left the hospital. Right? Medium rare. I’m good, right? Tell me I’m good.”

“You’re excellent. I couldn’t be prouder.”

“You should be. There were like fourteen thousand steps. But you know these potatoes, these fucking potatoes,” she says, turning away to wrench open the warming drawer, removing a bowl and releasing it with a frustrated clatter, “were a real bitch, you know that? Because who-the-fuck knew that you have to mash them before baking them again and that silly girl, that silly, silly girl at Williams Sonoma didn’t fucking sell us one. I mean what the hell is that about? I gave her a credit card and said ‘one of everything’ and yet, _yet no fucking potato masher!_ ” she’s almost yelling with indignation, hands gesticulating frantically. “How the fuck does _that_ happen? Look, _look_ at the lumps! Think I can sue for potato lumps? It’s the American way, right? Okay, okay not sue, maybe. But I’m going in there tomorrow and she’s never going to know what fucking hit her.”

“Spare the Williams Sonoma girl, Carrie. I’ll mash your potatoes,” he says, walking up to peer into the bowl.

She steps toward him, backing him into the counter, her hand going to his buckle sliding the strap out because if he doesn’t fuck her soon she’s pretty sure she’s just going to masturbate right there in front of him, next to the olive oil and Nespresso machine. Shifting to a seductively manipulative tone, she says, “Not now, big guy. We have other priorities. This is your chance, you know that, right?” pulling his zipper down.

“Chance for what? Did you just call me ‘big guy’?” He’s barely keeping up.

Her eyes twinkle evilly. Really evilly. “For no line. No _fucking_ line,” mimicking him. He can’t quite believe she’d quote him on that, but there’s indeed no line, apparently, so he leans back against the counter as she undresses him. “Me, off lithium. It’s like mainlining female Viagra, popping ecstasy and snorting cocaine all at once. Think you’re up to it, Peter Quinn?” and she licks him at the base of his neck. A big Rolling Stones tongue lick.

He chuckles and replies, “I’ll do my best, Ms. Mathison.”

“No-no-no. I don’t think you get it. I _know_ you don’t get it," unbuttoning his shirt. "This is your chance, y’know.”

“For what?”

“For kinky, horny, blow-your-brain-box, _Eyes Wide Shut_ , Jenna Jameson, sex-play-for-the-fucking-ages fucking. That’s what _I’m_ talking about,” and she says the last line like a street cred NBA star who just made a half court basket.

He barks a laugh, despite himself, at the imitation, deciding to play along. “I think I need more details.”

“Fuck, I dunno, Quinn! Anything! _Everything!_ Are you going to make me fucking brainstorm? Whips, chains, blindfolds, dildos, butt plugs, hot wax, anal, food foreplay,” she says, nodding emphatically to herself, liking that. “Definitely food.” Pleased with her list, she grins, wild eyes flying back to him while opening his shirt, splaying her hands on his chest.

“You have one?” he inquires, with a hint of snark.

“What?”

“A dildo.”

“No. I left it at Jonas’s place.”

His shoulders start to shake in silent laughter and she’s pretty sure that’s a first – silent laughter from Quinn - and she feels immediately victorious, gold-medal-arms-in-the-air victorious. _So this is what love is_ , she thinks in a brief flash of lucidity.

Refusing to be distracted, she reverts back to her frenzy. “What can I say? Sometimes a girl needs some extra help. But, guess _whaaat?_ I don’t need one _annnymoore_ ,” she sing-songs, winking at him before bending to rid him of his pants. When she straightens up, her eyes suddenly flash with an idea. “Or-or-or, I know! _I know!_ Another girl! Every guy wants a threesome, right? Right? Or, I don't know-” her eyes clouding with concern, “-we've never talked about this. We usually just do it, don't we? Maybe, _maybe_ , you’d want another guy? To watch me with him? Or maybe for you? No judgment. I’m serious. No fucking judgments. You’re almost too hot to be heterosexual. Has anyone ever told you that?” Without waiting for a reply she scans the room. “Fuck, where's my phone? We need sex toys and a girl, or a guy. Which do you want? Where is my _fucking_ phone?”

Watching her darting eyes, he realizes she’s actually serious and Quinn decides it’s time to rein her in. He walks half naked in his boxers to the fridge in search of wine. “Carrie we're not having a threesome.”

“Why not? _Why not?_ Every fucking guy wants to have a threesome. What’s wrong with you, Quinn! This is it, Quinn. It's a no judgment, fuck-like-bunnies, get-out-of-jail free, never-look-back kind of night. Go hard or go home, _baby_ ,” she says mimicking him on the last word.

“Where’s the wine, Carrie? You need to slow the fuck down.”

“After we fuck,” she says, slamming the fridge door shut so fast it almost crashes into his face. Then she leaps, literally, launching herself into his arms, legs straddling his waist, lips to his neck open and burning. “Why _aren’t_ we fucking yet?”

“Jesus Christ, Carrie,” he huffs, finding a relatively clear end of the kitchen island to set her down.

“About fucking time, Quinn,” she says, biting his ear.

His hands slowly travel up her thighs, under the thin cotton, finding a tiny slip of underwear, pulling them off at approximately the same time as he shoves down his boxers and steps out of them. Ramrod hard now, his cock at the ready, twitching to get inside her. His burning hands travel up her body to her neckline, dragging down the deep scoop neck to expose one breast.

“Bite it, Quinn.” He ducks down and obeys, doing it hard, because he’s finally getting with the program, and she groans deep and guttural. His hands find the top of her thighs, thumbs moving to bracket her pussy and then he freezes, his eyes flying to hers.

“You got waxed?”

“Completely”

He yanks up her dress to around her waist and looks down. “ _Fuck_ ,” low and moaning because he’s pretty sure he’s never seen anything as explosively erotic as Carrie’s hairless pussy with her glistening juices peeking out from her slit. He’s rendered speechless as he moves his thumbs slowly over the bare skin before slowly separating and beholding her, open and pink, creaming and bare. Her scent surrounds him. He detonates. He jerks her hips forward and plunges inside her so hard he hits her cervix, hurting her in all the right ways. She groans with the pain and relief.

They’re not kissing, not even close, because he’s looking down at his wet cock sinking into her hairless pussy and it’s so erotic he could give two fucks about being careful, which is just fine because Carrie might have clawed his eyes out if he did. His thrusts start slow but deep, with barely controlled aggression and she knows she’ll be bruised from where the edge of the counter is digging into her back. Amped up with hypersexuality, after five thrusts Carrie sits up and grabs him around the neck, pulling his face to hers, her body trembling, stomach seizing, until she quakes so hard he’s forced to stop, her muscles kneading his cock with vigorous contractions. She’s a little delirious for a few seconds as her head flops to his shoulder and he actually wonders if she fainted.

She finally comes to, rears her head and whispers, “What the fuck are you waiting for?” He exhales with relief and resumes his thrusting, faster because this time it’s for him. His hand pulls her hair, hard, exposing her neck and causing her torso to arch, teeth scraping hard across the top of her breast.

When he’s at the brink, he pulls back to look at her hairless pussy again, literally being drilled by his cock. He slams into her one last time and goes over the edge with a deep obscene noise, barely noticing that her nails are almost drawing blood at his shoulders as she comes again.

Time seems to vanish as they come back to earth, coated in a sheen of sweat, their labored breathing finally slowing. Eventually he goes up on his elbows and raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

She laughs, momentarily calmed thanks to two orgasms, trailing a lazy hand to the damp hair at his brow. “The brazilian? Upping my game, Peter Quinn,” but her words are still steaming, “for you. But fuck it hurt but it was kind of a turn on and then I spent all fucking day thinking about how everything feels more, _more_ , I dunno, just fucking more and how much I needed you to get home. Why the fuck didn’t I do this years ago?”

“Not my wheelhouse, Mathison,” and she moans at the loss when he withdraws. He keeps a hand on her abdomen, pinning her down. He then takes her legs and bends them, placing her feet on the edge of the counter. His hot hands trail down the inside of her thighs, spreading her for examination. “It’s fucking erotic as hell, Carrie.”

Reaching for a folded dish towel on the counter, he turns on the tap from the small second sink next to them on the island. She’s up on her elbows, a little dumbfounded as he wraps the towel around two fingers.

“Hot or cold?”

“Hot. As hot as possible.”

He wets the towel with the scalding water before slowly, excruciatingly so, begins to wipe his seed and her juices first from her thighs then around her labia before carefully, reverently, spreading her. He strokes slowly past her clit to around her entry, methodical. “Did I hurt you?” he whispers.

She drops down with a moan, a hand covering her eyes, not quite believing how arousing this feels. “Yes, thank God,” she exhales.

He takes his time, wetting the towel again for a more detailed cleaning this time, stroking into her folds before finally finding her clit and gently wiping it with the searing towel in soft, short strokes.

She’s starting to writhe. “Again, Quinn.”

“I can't fuckin' do it again, Carrie. Give me half an hour.”

She chuckles at that, gazing up at him languidly, “You seem fine,” before arching her head to the side and finding the honey pot she used to coat the rib roast, handing it to him.

He laughs looking down at her, taking the pot, understanding and marveling at the sight: Carrie, her cooking chaos in the glossy white kitchen, waxed clean, splayed on the Carrera marble in a six million dollar apartment he can’t quite figure out why they own. From sarin chamber to this. _Goddamn_. Most days he wonders if this is some kind of dream, amazed at the contentment, as though they both knew this is where they were always meant be. He bends to kiss her then, because even if she’s making this all out to be about fucking, he’s completely overwhelmed by her; how she’s crawled and taken up residence in his very soul. She lets him kiss her softly because she knows he’s gone all puppy dog soft, recognizing the symptoms. He starts at the corner of her lips, slowly teasing, opening her up, a careful kiss of worship, similar to what he’d just done with the towel moments before. When he breaks it and looks down she smiles and whispers, “I love you, too.”

He straightens up and opens the pot, spinning the honey around the wooden dipper and moving it to hover over her pussy as he opens her with his other hand. She watches him silently, holding her breath. Just as the honey is about to drip down upon her, he spins the dipper, playing with her as she exhales in frustration.

After the third time she’s had enough. “I swear to God, Quinn, if you don’t get on with this I’m going to break your perfect nose with my heel.”

Smiling, he acquiesces, letting the honey drip down. He coats her with it, dragging the dipper with its rough wooden surface gently from her entry up to her clit where he keeps it pressed, circling three times until she moans again. Finally, he puts it aside and bends down with his mouth. He starts at her entry, circling with his tongue, then slowly travels north tasting the honey and her juices in every crevice. When he nears her clit, he assiduously avoids it, circling over and over until he hears another desperate sound from Carrie.

When his tongue finally lands on her clit, he inserts two fingers inside her and she bucks into him, forcing him to pin her hips with his free hand. He stays with her, licking and nibbling at her until finally she arches back and groans deep and long. She’s still for a minute, her faced blocked by the arm that went over her eyes in some pre-orgasm desperation, and he straightens.

“I think I just had dessert before dinner,” Quinn quips, reaching over and tearing paper towels off a nearby stand, handing one to her while wiping his mouth. He pulls on his boxers and pants before perfunctorily depositing the dipper into the dishwasher and going back to the fridge. “Carrie, where’s the wine?”

Coming back from her liquefying three-orgasm stupor, she watches him in a daze for a few moments before the manic neurons reconnect. She hops off the counter and drags up her panties. Grinning with pride she grabs his arm, leading him to the wine fridge that had been been empty this morning.

Opening the glass door of the counter height wine chiller, she pulls him down to where she’s crouched. “Looky, looky. I stocked it and grouped it by grape type, labeled it, and then alphabetized by brand,” her words resuming their typewriter-speed. “See, there are the cabs, and the chardonnays start there and the pinot-”

“Carrie, did you just say ‘looky’?” She nods fast and emphatically. “Well, we have a problem.”

“What?”

“See how the top three levels are a different section? That’s for the reds. This thing keeps them at a higher temperature.”

“Fuck! _Fuck!_ ” she says, crestfallen like a toddler who has been told ‘no more cookies’.

“I’ll re-sort it later. When did you do all of this?”

“This morning. Oh my God, Quinn, it was the fucking _best_ day. Right after you left this morning I wrote a letter then went to the UPS store. And then the wine store. And you know what? The wine guy fucking _loves me_. Probably because I told him to choose them himself and didn’t even look at the bill, but _whatever_. They delivered it twenty minutes later and, _fuck_ , that delivery guy looked like a short Mark Sanchez and you better thank your lucky stars that I love you so much because I’m pretty sure he fucked me with his eyes. Then I got the food and the brazilian and I unpacked the last six boxes from my move and your measly two boxes and then I went shopping and then I came home and made dinner.” Suddenly remembering her previous mission, she twirls around. “Where the fuck is my phone?” she asks, eyes darting around the kitchen.

Anticipating this, he had covertly silenced and pocketed her phone when he had gotten dressed; he attempts distraction, “And the pile of clothes by the door?” he asks, while pulling out an Oregon pinot noir.

“All my fucking Ann Taylor and Talbots pant suits. I’m telling you, Quinn. I’m upping my game. This city does not suffer frumpy. Have you _looked_ at these women? Actually, forget that. _Don’t_ look at those women,” but she won’t be put off, pinning him with a stern stare. “Quinn, call my cell.”

“Why? Let’s just eat, Carrie,” Quinn says, taking two glasses from the cupboard before rummaging through a drawer for the wine opener.

“You know why! So I can find it to get the girl, or a guy, and the sex toys.”

“Carrie, it’s seven thirty. You’re not getting a hooker and sex toys now,” he says, popping the cork.

“See-see-see that’s where you’re wrong, Quinn. You’re wrong. I love this fucking city – love-love- _love_ – this fucking city. With a credit card and a phone you can order an entire football team to come over and fuck you.”

“I think I’d prefer the cheerleaders,” he says, pouring the wine and handing a glass to her with a sardonic smile.

“Okay, so a girl, not a guy. That’s settled. What sex toys do we get?” Carrie asks, taking the wine and then handing him the half-mashed potatoes along with a spoon.

He’s playing with her now because, honestly, what the fuck does a lone ex-assassin do with a woman who wants to order up sex adventure for manic sex play? “I’ve never tried a butt plug.”

Victorious, she almost yelps with delight, “Done! _Done!_ Now call my phone so I can fucking find it.”

“I was fucking kidding about the butt plug,” he says, working the potatoes into a smooth consistency.

She opens the oven to check the roast thermometer. “Why not? Please, Quinn? _Pretty please?_ Please? Let’s do _this_. I’m not like this every day.” She takes the shells of the baked potatoes out of the warming drawer, setting them on the counter in front of him.

”Carrie, you’re pretty keyed up even _on your meds_. I’ve got no fucking complaints,” he says, spooning the mixture into the skins. “You’re not going to do something you may regret in this fucking state, that’s why. I won’t allow it. We can stay up all night fucking if you want but we’re not having a threesome. Now drink your wine.”

She looks down at the glass in her hand, having completely forgotten she had it, and obediently gulps down half the glass. “You’re no fun! _No fun, no fun, no fun._ Fucking always the grown up,” her hands jerking upward in exasperation. “ _My kingdom for a fucking potato masher and butt plug!_ ”

His shoulders start to shake again and she’s pretty sure she’s going to do a victory dance around Central Park. She puts the newly loaded potato skins into the second oven. “What the fuck is so funny?”

“Carrie I'm pretty fucking sure no one has ever quoted Shakespeare along with butt plug and potato masher.”

“I dunno. Maybe Shakespeare liked butt plugs and mashed potatoes. Those Brits are pretty fucking kinky.”

“Really? How would you know?”

“Before Brody I had a flirtation with one. Actually, come to think of it he looked a little like you only he smiled more, kinda goofy. And he wore scarves. He fucking turned up looking like a rumspringa’ing Amish one time. Too kinky in the end.”

“Define ‘too kinky’.”

“He once shaved his head and had these weird fantasies about being a hitman and doing weird shit his gun.”

“Well, technically, I _am_ a former hitman and I can do lots of weird shit with my gun.”

“Promise?”

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes later they eat while she regales him with frenzied detail about her day: the nice cabbie who unfortunately smelt of curry; a sublime lunch at Le Grenouille, the annoying crowd at Zabar’s including the frizzy-haired woman with the Bernie sticker and WNYC bag who smelled of b.o. and cut in front of her in line; and whether or not she should opt for beige-y Mademoiselle or pink-ish Ballet Slipper for her manicure the following day. Then there were the bigger issues: whether to hire the Botoxed decorator with the Birkin and whether to apply Frannie to All Souls preschool because it’s crunchy and liberal, or go for traditional Episcopal – recommended by the decorator - despite all those girls in their stupid smocked dresses and hair bows. Quinn mostly just ate, his head nodding and shaking dutifully, in wonderment, charmed and amazed at Carrie’s brain in overdrive.

Finally, having gotten three drinks into her and content in the knowledge that he had taken Carrie down from sex toys to prosaic soliloquies on Manhattan, he pulls her plate over to gather the dishes.

Then she asks, “You’ve had one, haven’t you?”

“What?” he asks, the scraping fork in midair.

“A threesome.”

He coughs and stares at her wordlessly before looking down to resume his scraping.

“You can’t do that, Quinn. You can’t just _not_ answer the question. That’s not us.”

“Really? I thought we excelled at under-communication. I kinda like it.”

She moves from her chair to his, climbing on his lap, straddling him. “Not anymore,” she says, lowering her mouth to his ear and kissing the soft skin below before hissing, “Tell me, Quinn. Now. That’s why you don’t want to do it. You’ve already done it.”

He just looks at her this time with a ‘what do you think?’ expression painted on his face.

“See, I _knew_ it. I _fucking_ knew it. When?”

“South America. The drug cartel years. Are we done?”

“Absofuckinglutely not. Two girls?”

“Yeah. Carrie,” and desperate to deflect, he adds, “let's take the wine and go watch some calm TV. Like _Downton Abbey_ or dolphins on the Nature Channel, or something.”

“See, I never had one. How did I miss out on all the fun?” she whines, and she seems genuinely upset, which is patently absurd and once again he’s falling behind.

“You had plenty of fun, Carrie. Anyway it’s not like porn. It’s a little stressful, actually.”

“Really?” she squeals, cocking her head, delighted by the insight. “Tell me. Tell me!” She pleads, before bending back down into his neck trailing kisses. _Hell, it worked last time_.

“Christ, Carrie,” he exhales because she’s such a delicious handful. When she straightens to look at him, grinning in the knowledge that she’ll get an answer out of him, he finally says, “Someone always feels kinda left out. And there was only so much of me to go around.”

She just stares for a second, pondering the image before laughing - hard - shoulders shaking. Quinn lifts her off and takes the piled dishes to the sink and proceeds to put the leftovers into containers.

Impatient, not wishing to deal with the mess, Carrie sits and drinks, brain revving yet again. After a few short minutes she assumes her little girl voice and says, “I’ve got another surprise for you,” taking him by the hand leading him down the opposite hallway to the master bedroom. She sits him down on the bed opposite the built-in that houses his clothes and she opens the closet with a flourish. What was nearly bare this morning was chalked full of clothing.

“What the fuck, Carrie?”

“Ta dah! See-see-see. Look. I went to Tom Ford and Prada for the jackets and shirts. I got ten button-downs and they’re not all fucking khaki and gloomy. But three are navy. You can wear navy whenever you want. Hot. Mysterious and _hot_. The raincoat is from Barbour. It’s sporty like the one in Berlin. What happened to that one? And a tux from Burberry because Otto’s going to make me go to all those benefits in his stead even though I quit. I went to Ralph Lauren for the casual stuff. Here are the sweaters and your t-shirts – thirty - labeled and sorted by color, see?” She takes out a light blue silk and cotton mix and unfurls it like a delighted kindergartener at show-and-tell. Before he can reply, she turns back to her presentation, “And the work jackets will go here – I got you four – you need to go back to Tom Ford tomorrow at noon to get them tailored – the salesman’s name is Sebastien with an ‘en’ not an ‘an’ because he’s French but don’t call him a salesman. He’s a ‘fashion consultant’ and, goddamn, he was hot. Why _do_ the hottest guys always pitch for the other fucking team? How’d you escape? I was so pissed I didn’t have a photo of you. _Fuck_ , he’ll be impressed..“

She pauses briefly to take a breath, trying to remember the details, not noticing that his mouth is a little agape. “Oh and they were back-ordered in the silk boxers but they’re coming. And-and-and just up the street was this cute little store called Vileprequin or Vilebrequin, or something - I don’t remember - but Sebastien sent me there. He said ‘you muuust get his swimsuit there, daaarling’,” she says, imitating the intonations of a cliché gay man, “and, look, look isn’t it hot? And so cute with the turtles? You told me you like turtles. _Strange_ , I always thought the French men wore those stupid Speedos, didn’t you?” Her eyes are genuine and wide with serious inquiry.

“Carrie, how much did you spend?”

“Oh my God. No. No! You are not allowed to sound like a _husband!_ Doesn’t matter, Quinn. You didn’t have any clothes. _Nothing!_ And Otto gave us this apartment and, fuck, Quinn, have you _looked_ at the danger pay the CIA gave you? And God bless Anderson Cooper with his ‘help support the gassing victim fund’ thing. From what I can tell every one of his five hundred thousand viewers gave you ten bucks. _Damn_.”

“How much, Carrie?” he asks, again, grabbing her hand and pulling her down beside him on the bed.

She can tell tell she’s not getting out of it so she fesses up. “Ten thousand, maybe, I wasn’t really paying attention-” ignoring his aghast expression, she continues, “but Citibank was! I had to deal with them for half an hour. Ass holes.”

“Jesus, Carrie,” he sighs, wiping a hand over his forehand, “We’re taking half of it back tomorrow when you’re yourself.”

“Nope, _nope!_ No returns. Store credit only. Gotcha. _You’re stuck with them!_ ” bouncing on the edge of the bed with delighted victory. “Anyway, _anyway_ , Sebastien will love you and he’ll probably wonder why the fuck you’re with me, _me_ with my frumpy, stupid pantsuits. He’ll wonder why you’re not with, fuck, I don’t know, a Victoria’s Secret Angel or something.” She reconsiders then, whipping her head to the side, out the window, brain turning. “No-no-no, not a Victoria’s Secret Angel, that’s too, I don’t know, fuck, just not _you_. I _know!_ What the fuck is George Clooney’s wife’s name?”

“Amal.”

“See! See! You fucking know her name! She’s hot, right? she asks rhetorically, standing, attaching to a new obsessive thought-stream. “Or, or I don’t know, I could see you with one of those super-achiever Olympic medalists who afterward decide to slum it by modeling for Alexander McQueen and do a TED talk in their spare time. Anyway, I need to up my fucking game. Sebastien gave me a name of a personal shopper at Bergdorf’s. I’m on it.”

“Carrie, you _are_ Amal Clooney. A blonde Amal.”

“No! No! _No!_ See you say that, you fucking say that but then one day you’ll wake up and realize you’re with a pain-in-the-ass crazy chick in bad pantsuits who made you wait five years too long to fuck her when you could have had Amal or Alexander McQueen’s muse the entire time. Nope. Not gonna fuckin’ happen. I’m upping my game.”

“Amal’s not leaving George, Carrie, and who the fuck is Alexander McQueen’s muse? Isn’t he dead, anyway?”

“Yeah, but his fucking muse is still around! _Are you not fucking listening?_ ”

He laughs and stands, completely out-manic’ed by her, and grabs her by the shoulders, bringing her up against him and framing her face. “Carrie, I don’t want Amal and I don’t want McQueen’s Olympian muse. I want you. And only you. It’s been that way for five fucking years. That’s not gonna change.”

“Okay, but we have a shoe problem.”

“Christ,” he says, dropping his head in amused defeat. “Why, Carrie?”

“Because I couldn’t fucking buy you shoes! You need more fucking shoes. Tailoring is at noon. I’ll meet you for lunch afterward and we can go to Barney’s for shoes.”

“We’ll see how you’re feeling after you take your meds in the morning. It can wait,” Quinn says, his eyes flickering over to Carrie’s laptop on the corner desk. “Did you say you went to the UPS store this morning?” he asks, walking over to her desk.

“Yeah, why?”

“What did you send? I’m not sure you should be writing anything at the moment,” fingering the lone paper sitting at the edge.

She rushes toward him. “No, no, no. No! That’s not for you, Quinn. Give it here.”

He holds the paper up, away from her grabbing hands, eyes registering the first few words.

“ _You fucking wrote Jonas a letter?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thanks to ascloseasthis who should quit her job to be a professional editor!  
> 


	3. Fireworks in Manhattan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by SCB's lovely Closure which can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6894238  
> Thanks, Frangi and ascloseasthis (and probably others I'm forgetting), for the drumbeat to get this written!

Defeated, Carrie’s arms slink to her sides. She opts for a cowardly evacuation. “ _Fine_ , Quinn, read the goddamn letter! I need another drink.”

“Carrie…” Quinn says, about to protest further imbibing.

Carrie’s regards his patient yet reproachful expression and her glazed eyes fill with crazed love for him. She’s determined to have her way but pleads for his understanding.  

He would have protested. He would have told her she’d had enough to drink... yet one look from her and he’s rendered speechless. _And I fucking thought I could handle this_ , he thinks. He flicks his hand holding the letter, an unspoken ‘be my guest’ and she knows she’s won a small victory.

She gives a small hop before bending down and kissing him on the cheek. “I’ll be right back,” and she’s gone before he can rethink his acquiescence. Quinn slumps into the desk chair with a frustrated, fond defeat he cannot even name.

He holds the letter up in front of his face, while the other moves over his mouth in silent anticipation of the clusterfuck he’s about to read.

* * *

Carrie returns seven minutes later and pauses for long seconds at the doorway bearing an opened pink wine bottle and two glasses. He looks up, letter read, still in hand, and regards her with far too much containment. She calculates his clenched face and narrowed, flashing eyes and decides to ignore him completely. _Here we go with the Quinn-rage_ , she thinks. _It’s all SO boring._

Carrie flings a dramatic finger to her lips, “shhhh, shhhh, Quinn,” she says in a hushed voice. She tiptoes toward him, trying to avoid the predictable alpha-male tantrum that will come her way. “It’s July and I know you don’t like rosé, but I’m telling you, this one, Whispering Angel–“ she says, holding the bottle up proudly, “—it’s actually called that, this wine, how stupid and American is _that_ name? But, actually, it’s French and it’s _ama-zing_ and there’s a run of it in the Hamptons and–“ she finally halts, looks at him, and has a fleeting thought that he might actually hit her.

His mouth opens to start the Manic-Meets-Assassin confrontation for the ages but he’s stuck. His mouth snaps shut, speechless. He’s torn between launching at her for this _insane_ letter and beholding the gorgeous hilarity in front of him.

His shoulders slump, enraged but befuddled by her words. He’s not tracking. “And _what?_ ”

“I got some!” she exclaims, victorious, holding up the bottle.

“Carrie, what the _fuck_ are you talking about?”

“Whispering Angel! _I told you!_ We’ve got the last five bottles on the eastern seaboard delivered today! Sebastien – he’s my gay friend now – tells me we’re very lucky,” she nods with a self-satisfied smile. “He texts me now. He’s funny as fuck.”

He’s done. Absolutely fucking done. Manic or not, drunk or not, Whispering Angel shortage or not, Quinn rises to take her on, roaring, “ _Carrie, I don’t give a flying fuck about your Madison Avenue gay best friend or your French_ _rosé_ _!_ This letter is fucking just – just —“ he’s at a loss for words and pounds the letter with his left hand.

“Here, Quinn.” Carrie says calmly, having poured the wine at the bedside table. She offers him one.

Baffled, trying to stay on point, Quinn distractedly accepts the wine. “Carrie, you cannot work for the CIA and say this shit. It’s insanity! What the fuck were you thinking?!”

“Weeelll, Quinn. Point number one, insanity is a given. You knew what you were getting into,” and she smiles an _‘I’ve got ya there’_ smile.

“Carrie—”

“Ah-ah-ah,” Carrie says holding up a hand to halt him. “Point number two, do we have to do this? It’s _SO_ _tiring_. “

“ _Tiring?_ ” He’s almost screaming now. “ _I’m_ tiring? Jesus Christ, Carrie, you just took ten minutes to regale me with every detail of your manic shopping adventure! You think _that_ was entertaining? I’d rather watch paint dry or - I dunno - watch Dar and Saul eat waffles!”

“Yeah. See, this is what’s about to happen. You’ll reprimand and shout and point and clench your jaw and pace around like a caged animal. I’ll get all defensive. You’ll act like you have a monopoly on the moral high ground. I may apologize but I won’t mean it and you’ll know I don’t mean it but I’ll wear you down. You’ll give up. I will win. You’ll wonder why you love me but then we’ll have mind-blowing make-up sex. After that  I’ll make you laugh and everything will be fine.” Carrie nods, happy and self-satisfied with her predictive abilities. “Can we just skip the in-between shit and get on to fucking? You always calm down when we’re naked.”

He tosses the letter to the desk. “Carrie, stop. Just stop . You work for the CIA again and–“ He drags a hand through his hair, again, finally getting to the main point “—you-you sound like _a_ fucking fascist in this and you compared our _dick sizes!”_

“Quinn, Sweetheart, drink your wine and calm down,” and she actually touches his arm in comfort.

Quinn jerks his arm back, incredulous. “Did you just call me ‘ _sweetheart’?_ ” He could have killed her, fucked her or fed her to Haqqani at that very second, his fury was _that_ furious. “No. _NO_ . Carrie, this is not how this fucking works!” he shouts, banging down his wine glass, just short of shattering, wine sloshing on the desk.

She’s completely charmed by him, internally counting down each his stage of his angst. “Do tell, Quinn. How does it work? Because I’m pretty sure I know what comes next.”

Despite himself, despite knowing he is the one meant to watch over her in this state, the mere fact that she wouldn’t give him his one fucking moment almost sends him over the edge. “Wha-?” He’s incredulous. “ _This_ is how it works, Carrie—” he says, rising and lunging toward her like the aforementioned caged animal, grabbing her shoulders and forcing her down on the bench at the end of their bed so he can loom over her with palpable rage. “—you hear me out! That’s what normal people do, Carrie!"

She tries. She really tries. She takes a long centering breath, her hand going to her forehead to make the sign of the cross, praying inwardly for composure. Her face becomes dramatically serious and finally she says, “I’m all ears, Quinn—” but then she loses it to a bout of giggles, “Sweetheart.”

He turns away and walks to the window in search of any kind of serenity that will prevent him from hurling her through the glass.

A flash of lucidity comes over her and it occurs to her that she’s pushed him too far. She rises, picks up his glass from the desk, and walks around to face him. “Okay,” she says, offering his glass. “I’m listening,” she says, trying to hold her serious expression before her face breaks, then recovers. “Really, Quinn, I’m listening.”

He sighs, searching for God, deliverance, Buddha, anyone. “First of all, you work for the CIA again, Carrie, and you sound like a fascist-Dick-Cheney-Neocon. If that goes public, you’re _fucked_.”

“I _like_ Dick Cheney.”

“I cannot believe we’re having this conversation, Carrie. Even Trump hates Dick Cheney.”

“I’ll take Dick over Donald any day! Cheney was a smart motherfucker and he _knew_ how to pound their asses,” Carrie says, drumming her nails on the wine glass. “Besides, from what I can tell, Trump wants to suck Putin’s dick and _that_ cannot be allowed to happen.”

He stares. Silent. Dumbfounded.

She sighs when the moment drags on and moves a dismissive hand through the air. “This _is_ kinda boring, Quinn, honestly.”

“ _Boring_?”

“Can we just have rough sex now? That’s where this’ll end, anyway. We are great at make-up sex.”

“ _Carrie_ …”

She exhales, realizing she’s gonna have to meet him halfway. “Okay, fine. What do you want me to say? Just because I’m not dropping drones anymore, it doesn’t mean I’m not all for them.”

“Carrie, that man started a war - a _war_ \- that had no justification, no direction, no objective and no endgame.”

“That’s great. Are we done? Because I’d really like to move on from American foreign policy conundrums. Here’s to butt plugs and three-ways,” she smiles, clinking the glass in his hand. She drinks to her toast. He doesn’t.

“We’re not done.”

“Okay, how do we get done?”

“ _Jesus Christ, Carrie!_ Y _ou_ can’t compare dick sizes in-in- ” Quinn looks to the ceiling, aghast that this even needs to be said, “- _writing!_ Are you high? _”_

“Well…” and Carrie shrugs because they both know she’s as chemically clean as she generally gets, technically speaking.

Quinn regards her for long seconds.

“So…?” Carrie says.

“So? You can’t fucking do that!”

“Why not?” Carrie asks taking a long drink of Whispering Angel. “It’s true, Quinn. You-” and she tries to suppress another bout of giggles, “-were endowed by Mother Nature,” and then she dissolves into genuine laughter because it’s all so ridiculous. “Can we not just _celebrate_ this fact? Why all the drama.”

“Because—“ and he takes a long gulp of Whispering Angel himself, finally, because she’s driven him to it "—it’s fucking _private_ , Carrie.”

“Pish-posh, Quinn, that’s what I say.”

“What the fuck is _that_?”

“Well, Quinn, it’s a pish. And a posh. Exactly what it sounds like!”

He pokes a finger a couple feet from her eyes. “Carrie, can we be clear, _crystal_ clear that my dick is not to be used in any further correspondence, ever, anywhere, for any reason?”  

“Pish-posh,” and she laughs and flops down on the mattress because it’s just so perfectly idiotic, the whole conversation. She rises onto her elbows. “This is _boring_ , Quinn.”

At his look of fury she tries fervently to sober. “Quinn, relax. You can rest assured that the letter won’t see the light of day for the very fact that I invoked your sizeable assets! I’m fucking brilliant.”

“What?”

“Your penis! Keep up, Quinn.” She rises, her wine still safely balanced in an outstretched arm. “Quinn, seriously. Jonas is not going to the media with a letter about his flaccid politics coupled with his _actual_ flaccid penis. I know men. I know German men. And I know the German press. The reporter would demand to see the whole letter. He will never do that. You should _thank me_!”

“I should _thank you_? What kind of ass-backward logic is that?”

“ _Yes!_ For singing the praises of your dick!”

Quinn’s mouth opens, then closes. There’s nothing rational to say.

“Besides, Otto still loves me. He’ll kill Jonas if he goes after me.”

 _Beep Beep_. The landline rings with the distinctive sound of the doorman calling up.

Quinn’s face is perplexed, transitioning to horrified. Carrie lunges at the phone, pushes the ‘talk’ button and avoids Quinn’s laser-sharp look. “Yes, yes, send her up.”

The race to the door is comedic. She had a head start and beats him. Carrie opens the door with a flourish. Quinn stands eight feet back in the hallway, anticipating disaster.

“ _Astrid!_ ” Carrie exclaims with delight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 is half way done. I should have it up within a week.
> 
> HUGE thanks to my intrepid editors, Laure001 and ascloseasthis! They were the best team ever!  
> We had a lively debate about the Putin line. Laure001 objected. I decided to keep it in because I think Carrie would say it. I SINCERELY hope it doesn't offend anyone! I know Putin has supporters, however: a) You can bet he doesn't have many in the CIA; b) His position on gays is well known; c) Trump does seem to adore him. I was trying to riff on all of these issues.


	4. Group Sex & Greek Gods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by SCB's lovely Closure which can be found here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6894238  
> 

Carrie steps forward, arms outstretched for a hug. Astrid stays rigid. Over Carrie’s shoulder Astrid watches Quinn turning away, muttering, “Jesus H. Christ.”

“Come in, come in, come in! And who is _this_?” asks Carrie, looking over the dark stranger beside Astrid.

Astrid’s head jerks from Carrie to her companion, then back. “Carrie, you said there was an emergency.”

“I did?”

“You did.”

“Where are your manners, Astrid?” offering her hand to Astrid’s date. “I’m Carrie. _Welcome_.” He screams sex - Henry Cavill crossed with Tommy Lee, but young - maybe twenty-five. “ _Niiiice_ , Astrid.”

The godlike creature smiles, confused, and says with a heavy accent. “I’m Vagelis, thank you for—” his words halt with Astrid’s glare.

“Your name is _Vagelis?"_ Quinn manages. _._

“It is,” he says, perplexed, while Carrie contemplates his hotness, Tommy Lee’s physical assets in mind.

“What’s going on?” Astrid asks Quinn.

“You don’t wanna know.”

“Why is everyone so goddamn serious around here?” Carrie interjects.

“Carrie…” Quinn warns. “Christ, just come _in_ ,” he says, deciding that normalizing the situation is his only move, ushering Astrid and her date through the foyer into the living room.

“Quinn, get our guests some wine. Stat.” He nods and disappears in a nanosecond, preferring Taliban gunfire to remaining there.

“Did she just say ‘stat’?” Astrid looks around to no one in particular.

“Have a seat,” says Carrie. Vagelis settles beside Carrie on the sofa. Astrid doesn't move.

“I knew a Vagelis in Greece.“ says Carrie delightedly, “when traveling. My friend from Princeton, Ashley – fuck – what a night. You’re Greek?”

“I am,” he answers, his eyes wandering down her neckline and tissue-thin dress. All Carrie can think is that he may actually be hotter than Quinn.

“Carrie, this does not appear to be an emergency.” _Fucking Astrid,_ Carrie thinks _, all business._

“It is.”

“You said it was a matter of life and death. Your usual drama.”

“Drama _shmama_. I said you needed to come.”

“Shmama?” Astrid echoes. “Are you aware of a translation for this?” she asks the god.

“This translation escapes me.” He smiles, his accent sexy. “Your trip to Greece, Carrie. Tell me more.”

“Carrie, could I get some help in here?” Quinn calls from the kitchen. Carrie, charmed by her sofa-mate, sighs and rises.

She finds Quinn in the kitchen with the wine, glasses, and nibbles on a tray sitting on the counter. He shoves a recently retrieved cardigan at her. “Put it on.”

She regards it with disdain. “Why?”

“Because this isn't Fort Lauderdale and you're not on Girls Gone Wild.”

“That sounds like fun. Can I do that?” She could be a child who was just offered ice cream.

“No, you're twenty years too old, Carrie.”

“You're no fun!” then, after a beat, “Quinn, how do you know about Girls Gone Wild?”

“Now.” Quinn holds the cardigan out and gives her a killer look, leaving her no choice.

She sidles up to him inserting her arms into the sweater. “No _fun_. You know, Quinn, if you keep up this boring, straight man shit I'm gonna book you and Jonas in for a round of golf. Or-or-or bowling. Or curling! Ha! You’d look cute with one of those broomy things.”

“They're aren't _rounds_ in curling, Carrie. They’re _ends_ and you need four players.” He can't even fathom why they're discussing this.

“Okay, smarty, Dar and Saul can bark orders while you and Jonas try to get that rock thingy to the target. Be careful that it doesn't slip out.” She giggles at her own joke. “And who sweeps, your or Jonas? And do you all fuck afterward? _This_ is the most important question!”

Quinn grabs her by the shoulders and backs her against the door jamb. “It's called a _house_ , Carrie, not a target! Not one word. Do you hear me? _Not one fucking word about threesomes or sex toys or anything!_ Tell me you fucking hear me.” His voice is hushed but he might as well be screaming.

Carrie smiles sweetly, cups his cheeks, and kisses him quickly. “I hear you, Quinn,” she says before ducking under his arm and re-entering the living room. Quinn kicks the wall before allowing himself a heaving sigh.

Carrie resettles next to the the god as Astrid rears on her. “Carrie, I am here because the last time you asked for my help you were wearing a wig, running from Russians, and Quinn was dying _._ In fact, he nearly did die. _”_

“That did kind of suck.”

Astrid scoffs as Quinn walks in, tray in hand. “What sucked?”  

“That you almost died because Carrie waited nine days before alerting me.”

Quinn exhales, relieved at the innocuous topic of sarin gassing. “She _was_ being stalked by assassins.”

“Really? I heard she was drinking wine with billionaires.”

“Who is an assassin?” The god asks, alarmed.

Quinn leans over Vagelis with a fierce sneer and offers a bowl. “I am, shithead. Olives?”

“Quinn!” Carrie admonishes, taking the bowl and popping an olive in her mouth. “Astrid, your boyfriend is delightful. But I didn’t think the Germans liked the Greeks. Is this a Merkel thing? Are you fucking _and_ funding him? Because _I_ would. Just saying.”

“What?!” says Astrid.

“Carrie!” says Quinn.

“Will someone tell me why am I here!” Astrid demands.

“I have a proposal,” Carrie exclaims, enthusiastic.

“Carrie, _shut up_.”

Carrie inhales, clasping her hands together. “I propose a threesome! Actually, a foursome, thanks to the gods who have given us one of their own.”

Astrid’s head jerks back, eyes flying to Quinn. “Is she okay?”

“What do you think?” Quinn shoots back before turning to Carrie. “I’m warning you. Shut the fuck up.”

“Foursome?” asks the god.

“Nevermind!” Quinn and Astrid answer in perfect unison.

Carrie turns to him. “Vagelis, it’s like a ménage a trois — only with you as our special guest, it will be a ménage a _quatre_ , which is so much better.”

Stumped by the translation, Carrie helps Vagelis with motions, ending with one hand in an okay sign, a rigid forefinger with the other.

“Ah, Ομαδικό σεξ!” Vagelis nods vigorously, jubilant.

“Yes!” Carrie nods and victoriously pumps a fist. “I have a recruit!”

“I like your friends!” says the god to his date.

Quinn pivots to the wall while a hand pushes through his hair.

“Carrie, is this a joke?” Astrid asks before addressing Quinn’s back. “Tell me she’s joking, Peter.”

Quinn rounds back. “Yes, it’s a joke. A complete fucking joke. Carrie, tell them before you completely embarrass yourself.”

Carrie jumps up. “No, no it’s not. _It’s not!_ Christ, where is your drink, Astrid? Quinn, why are we drinking wine? We should be doing shots.” Carrie spots the filled glasses on the tray and hands one over to Astrid, who downs a large gulp. “Just hear me out.”

“I will certainly _not_ ‘hear you out’ while you propose having sex with my boyfriend!”

“No, no, no! You don't understand. No not _just_ with him. I’m proposing sex with you too. Sex for everyone!” Astrid’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, c’mon Astrid! You’re from Berlin! I _lived_ there! You guys are kinky as fuck —” Carrie halts, distracted suddenly. “How the fuck did I end up with the only limp-dicked Berliner?” she asks, before refocusing. “Just-just hear me out!”

Quinn’s face is red, jaw clenching as fast and furious as his pulse.

“Sie ist verrückt!“ Astrid exclaims.

“Augenscheinlich!“ Quinn shoots back.

“Excuse me! I lived in Germany. I know what you’re saying. I am not insane!” Carrie hesitates, “well, not – nevermind. Anyway. _Just hear me out!”_ Carrie almost screams the last words. They all fall silent.

“Thank you!” Carrie exclaims, pleased. “Can we stop with all this parochial shit? If you would just _listen_ it makes perfect sense. Astrid, you’ve fucked Quinn. And you have fucked the god here, right?” Vagelis nods emphatically. “Quinn, you have fucked Astrid. And you and I fuck all the time. _And_ Quinn told me earlier he’s already had a threesome! C’mon! The god is game, right, Vagelis?”

“Φυσικά!”

“See! Almost all of us have fucked each other! Why not do it at the same time? It’s like completing a circle.” Carrie settles back next to the Vagelis, case made. They clink and drink.

“When did you have a threesome?” Astrid asks Quinn, accusing.

“Christ, Astrid! Are you going to help me with this?”

“How many times must I save you, Peter? You made your bed with this nutcase.”

 _"Hello!”_ Carrie snaps her fingers. “Stay on topic! _This_ is the question at hand: is it fair that you all get to fuck each other and I don’t get to fuck the Greek god? I ask you!”

“I will be happy to fuck you, Carrie.”

“Thank you, Vagelis!” Astrid and Quinn stare at them, speechless.

Carrie sighs. "Astrid, listen, I _know_ it can be complicated. I’ve never been with a girl either - or maybe you have -  but you’re sexy as hell. I’m _so_ game. And Vagelis,” Carrie turns her head, “are you purely heterosexual or would you be flexible?”

“αμφιφυλόφιλος?“ and he points a finger at Quinn.

“Yes!” says Carrie, gleeful that he understood.

“Of course, _flexible_. Look at him!” says Vagelis.

“Hey, Zorba, get your hand off Carrie’s knee or I will fucking slice off your dick and stuff it in your mouth.”

“See, Quinn, that is not nice. His dick must remain attached so it can go _elsewhere_ ,” Carrie declares before turning to the god in a hushed tone. “We may have some work to do with Quinn. I think he might only be interested in girls.”

Astrid clunks down her wine. “ _That’s it_. Vagelis, we are leaving. Sofort!”

 

* * *

 

Carrie finds Quinn in the kitchen, a bottle of Jim Beam on the counter.

“Well _that_ was disappointing. Fun, but disappointing. Quinn, how does Astrid find the hottest guys, anyway?”

Quinn doesn’t look up as he pours the amber liquid, his second, into the glass. He downs it in seconds before finally turning to her. “You promised.”

“Nope. I said ‘I heard you.’”

Quinn says nothing.

Wine glass in hand, head cocked and grinning, Carrie declares, “this leaves us with very few options, Quinn.”

Quinn says nothing.

“Hey, do you still have any handcuffs around?”

Quinn says nothing.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Carrie says, draining her wine and placing the glass on the counter. She slides up to him as he pours his third whisky, four fingers. “No butt plugs, no handcuffs, no group sex. By process of elimination, this only leaves one option, Quinn.”

Quinn says nothing.

“Quinn, _what_?”

He’s defeated, utterly. He slowly, deliberately, rounds the counter, pulls a chair, and sits at the end of the kitchen table. He carefully sets the whisky down, linking his fingers in front of him, mesmerized by his own cuticles. He could almost cry with frustration. His back rounds, head sinking down to his clasped hands. His shoulders slowly start shaking. Not for the first time, he realizes he cannot control her. He cannot solve her madness. And, maybe, just maybe that’s why he loves her. In any case, he’s vanquished and he knows it.

So he laughs, silently.

Carrie quietly sits down across from him.

Eventually, his flushed face comes up, chin resting on his hands, as he looks up at her.

Carrie’s eyes brim with reciprocal love. She smiles. “So. Let’s talk anal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a team effort in Serious Editing. Enormous thanks to Laure001 for tips on making dialogue snappier and cultural sensitivity; to Frangi for German tips/Astrid's "voice" and pointing out major details like C's revealing dress; and to ascloseasthis, as always, for grammar, et al. SO much fun, ladies! Always.
> 
> As for the next and final chapter... in my defense, I've been egged on by lots of esteemed, upstanding ladies in the fandom to go for it. Wish me luck. I'm terrified and may very well chicken out.
> 
> PS There is a real Vagelis. Ask ACAT :-)  
> PPS Tommy Lee is Greek-American and is famous for heavy metal and a sex tape.


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